


Wash me, and I shall be clean indeed

by hapax (hapaxnym)



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: (Literal) Smut, Canon Compliant, Christianity, Crack Treated Seriously, Gen, Historical - 17th Century, Inquisition (Portugal), Liturgical References, No I Don't Know What's Up With My Brain Either, Not Like That, Serpent!Crowley, The Arrangement (Good Omens), unfortunately
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-18
Updated: 2020-05-18
Packaged: 2021-03-02 23:42:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24225277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hapaxnym/pseuds/hapax
Summary: Crowley peered at him.  “You’ve got a …” he tapped his own forehead.“Well spotted,” the angel responded.  “Iamaware.”Crowley washes Aziraphale's face.That's it.That's the story.Or so both of them would defiantly insist.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 22
Kudos: 70





	Wash me, and I shall be clean indeed

**Author's Note:**

> I rewatched the scene when Aziraphale turns to Crowley to clean the stain off his coat and started wondering why, and then this happened. I may have a tendency to overthink this kind of thing.

Aziraphale was honestly surprised that it had taken this long before he had been caught out. But that was still no excuse for panicking.

After all, he had been adopting more-or-less clerical identities for centuries, ever since Heaven decided that the Great Plan would be best served by allying their interests with the institutional Christian Church—well, Church _es_ , really, ever since that dreadful spat six hundred years ago, and then there was that kerfuffle in Germany and the Low Countries, although he had been somewhat busy in Italy at the time and rather hoped that it still could be smoothed over—and even when he wasn’t masquerading as a friar or a knight or a monk (or, on a few occasions, a nun), it was generally assumed that whenever he was in Europe, he was a Christian of some sort.

Which, of course, he wasn’t.

Not that he had anything against the earnest young rabbi; he had barely met him, but Crowley had assured him that he was kind and brilliant and lovely, and he definitely didn’t deserve what the Romans had done to him, although that was all sorted out later, he supposed, but not Aziraphale’s department. No, the point was that Christianity, as it had evolved doctrinally, was a strictly human thing. All about humanity’s fallen nature, and the possibility of forgiveness and redemption.

Nothing to do with angels, who by definition were not Fallen.

(Nothing to do with demons, either, who by definition were Unforgivable. But that was hardly relevant to Aziraphale, was it?)

So for fifteen hundred years, Aziraphale had muddled through with fervent (and sincere) endorsement of general principles of morality and generosity and self-sacrifice, and by permitting his undeniable aura of Holiness shine through sufficiently to obscure that he never actually participated in the specific rituals and observances that his supposed faith demanded. (Well, with the exception of the assorted feast days. But honestly, abstaining from any available tsoureki or plum pud was practically _blasphemous_ , in the angel’s opinion.) 

But here it was early March, and he was attached to the forces of the Conde de Vila Flor, trying to deal with that absolute _mess_ in Portugal, and there was simply no way he could not take part in Ash Wednesday mass. Which in itself wasn’t a problem; Aziraphale rather liked the pomp of the solemn liturgy, and the cathedral of Évora was a magnificent Gothic pile, justly famed for its choral innovations. He could easily attend the services, and recite the prayers enjoining a laudable spirit of humility, even if they did not (strictly speaking) apply to him.

No, the problem was going to be the ashes.

Last Sunday, all the households in Portugal had brought to their local parish the dried fronds and woven crosses blessed in the previous year’s Palm Sunday observances, preserved and displayed for good luck and protection through the year. They had been solemnly burnt, and the ashes mixed with a little Holy Water and chrism, ready to be smeared upon the forehead of penitent worshippers with the admonition to _Remember that thou art dust, and unto dust thou shalt return_. And any face that did not display that inky black cross for the remainder of the day would be … well, _suspect_ was probably too mild a word.

Aziraphale worried, however, that his corporation wouldn’t permit the ashes to stick. For all the humble origins of the materials and the ostentatious theatricality of the rite, no one knew better than an angel how the power of human faith (accompanied by explicit Heavenly approval) could endow the most modest physical tools with miraculous power. And while Aziraphale might appear, to all intents and purposes, fully human, his nature had never fallen. His body wasn’t created from dust. And if, by some hideous cock-up on his part, it _were_ to become dust… Aziraphale positively shuddered to think about what the Quartermaster would have to say.

It was a minor detail, surely.

No one would notice. Or care.

Aziraphale was fretting over nothing again. 

The priest approached the angel kneeling at the altar rail, dipped his thumb into the pyx, and intoned “ _Memento quia pulvis es, et in pulvus reverteris_...” 

Aziraphale crossed himself. And discreetly snapped his fingers.

~*o0o*~

Whoever kept pounding on the door to Aziraphale’s rooms wouldn’t _go away_.

The angel finally put down the rag he had been rubbing against his face for the past several hours and frowned. “Crowley? Is that you?” He sighed, and snapped away the wards he had placed to prevent anyone entering uninvited. “You’d best come in, I suppose.”

The door banged open and the demon sauntered in, looking magnificently sinister (at least to Aziraphale’s eyes) in the black and red robes of the Tribunal of the Holy Office. “About time, angel. What mess have you gotten yourself into now?”

“Me?” He hastily placed the cloth over his face again. “Whatever are you doing here? And…” the angel squinted, “dressed like that? You told me that you had nothing to do with the Inquisition.” 

“Didn’t,” Crowley corrected him tersely. “Do now.” He grimaced. “After I got that commendation, Hell came up with the nifty notion of … _embedding_ me. Came here with da Costa, picked up that you were in trouble, brought some booze, what now?” He waved a couple of bottles of an excellent Alentejo.

How on earth did the fiend always _know_? Aziraphale wondered crossly. He let the rag fall.

Crowley peered at him. “You’ve got a …” he tapped his own forehead.

“Well spotted,” the angel responded. “I _am_ aware.”

The demon smirked. “ _This_ is your problem?” He put down the bottles, licked a thumb and leaned forward, saying “Here, let me…” just as Aziraphale shouted, “Don’t!”

Too late. Crowley made contact with the black smudge, and yelped. “OW! What the…” He leaned in closer. Lowered his tinted lenses to examine the angel’s face more carefully. Sniffed. “That’s … _consecrated_ smut?”

“Ashes,” Aziraphale responded primly. He very much hoped that he betrayed no reaction to the demon’s proximity. “Lent began three days ago.”

“Aaaand you’re still wearing them why exactly?” Crowley asked. “Didn’t somebody say something about _but as for thou, anoint thine head and wash thy face_? Or is this some sort of angelic extra?”

“I _tried_ , Crowley! It won’t come off!” Aziraphale scrubbed at his forehead to demonstrate. “I … may have, well, miracled the ashes a bit. To … make them stick. I seem to have, er, overdone things.”

Blast it, the demon had the effrontery to _snicker_. “Please, do _not_ tell me why you felt the need to do this. Every possible explanation I come up with is more hilarious than the last.” He shrugged. “Miracle ‘em off.”

“Oh, of course, why didn’t I think of that?” The angel rolled his eyes. “It’s not working. There’s some … interaction between the significance of the ashes, and the miracle, and the way this corporation never actually sinned, not _technically_ , and … I know that it’s ridiculous, but these people do take this sort of thing very seriously, they’ll think it’s a _sign_ , and if I can’t remove this mark, it will arouse all sorts of suspicions, and I’ll never get anything done!”

“Calm down, angel. You can …” Crowley made a vague wave-y gesture. “Make it so nobody sees it. You know, cover it up.”

Aziraphale frowned. “But I’d always know that it was there. Underneath.” He arranged his features into the pleading pout that had never yet failed to move the demon. “Can’t you … isn’t this what the Arrangement is for? To, er, _lend a helping hand as needed_?”

“But what, exactly, do you expect me to _do_?” Crowley ran his fingers through his fiery hair, dislodging the black calotte. “Despite the fancy dress, I don’t actually have any pull with the Tribunal. I couldn’t even get them to give their victims a decent burial.”

“Oh. Oh, I don’t expect it would come to _that_.” Poor fellow, no wonder he looked so distressed! “No, I was thinking … well, you know, the ashes are meant to be a reminder of the soul’s innate sinfulness. To signify, er, the curse of mortality. ‘ _Ashes to ashes_ ’, and so forth.” The angel found his hands twisting together. “I had thought that … your _expertise_ , as it were …” Oh _dear_. There was simply no polite way to phrase this, was there?

“Yeah, yeah, I get it.” Fortunately, the demon didn’t look offended, just … resigned. “Except that I’m really not into the whole cursing business, you know. Temptations, that’s my specialty.” Aziraphale could see golden eyes crinkle behind the smoked lenses. “Now if you think it’d help to try for a spot of sinfulness—”

“Certainly _not_!” the angel huffed.

“—all right, all right, just offering…” And now Crowley was definitely laughing at him. “But curses, yeah, I don’t have much experience, except for … huh.” The demon stilled, and tapped his teeth thoughtfully. “Huh,” he said again, more slowly. “You know, that might actually work.”

Aziraphale looked an enquiry.

“Umm, angel, if you’re up for it, I’m gonna try … a thing, but it’ll probably go better if I change forms, and …” goodness, was the demon _blushing_? “… you might wanna lie down for this.” He coughed, awkwardly. “Easier. If you don’t mind.”

Without hesitation, Aziraphale walked over to the narrow shelf bed and stretched out on his back. “I trust you, my dear.” He placed his hands neatly across his chest and waited.

“All right. Yeah.” Crowley somehow turned even brighter red. “Hang on a tick …” And just like that, his robes collapsed into a messy puddle on the floor. From the midst of them arose an enormous snake, gleaming obsidian with scarlet scales underneath, easily as thick around as one of the angel’s sturdy forearms. 

Aziraphale caught his breath. It had been, oh, over a thousand years since he had seen the demon in this shape. He had forgotten how _stunning_ it was. 

Crowley slithered over to the bed, and curled his way up to the straw mattress. The angel felt the cool serpentine slide against his left leg, then over his stomach and arms, in a smooth, undulating glissade. He could not keep his body from tensing slightly—the heavy weight and gentle wriggling motion felt eversomuch _nicer_ , even, than he had thought it might—and Crowley halted instantly. His diamond-shaped head lifted, and his forked tongue flicked out … almost nervously, the angel thought.

Aziraphale smiled at the demon in gentle reassurance. “It’s quite all right. I trust you,” he repeated.

The snake kept his head lifted for a few moments, weaving back and forth. Then he gradually lowered, unblinking golden eyes never leaving Aziraphale’s, until he rested beneath the angel’s chin, right against the pulse point at the side of his throat. Slowly Crowley glided along the angel’s jawline, past his ear, his temple, scales rasping softly against the sensitive skin of his face. 

Aziraphale closed his eyes.

Only to jerk them open with startled fear as he felt the faintest _flick_ of a serpent’s tongue against his forehead. “My dear, _don’t_ …” he exclaimed, struggling to sit up against the heavy coils that had settled on his chest. “You’ll hurt yourself. You’ll burn!”

Once again the snake lifted his head and met his eyes. His tongue flickered out repeatedly as he swayed back and forth in an unmistakably negative gesture. 

“You’re quite sure?” 

“Ss’fine. Sss …” Crowley seemed to struggle to articulate past the hiss. “It’ssss _dusssssssssssst_.”

Dust? Oh. _OH._ _Upon thy belly shalt thou go, and dust shalt thou eat all the days of thy life_. “Oh, how _clever_ you are, my dear.” Aziraphale settled back down, and closed his eyes again. “Please, do proceed.” 

He could not say precisely how long the gentle dry licking, soft as the flutter of a butterfly’s wings, continued. He was certain that it was not long enough. 

All too soon he felt the nudge of a snout against the side of his nose, and the rapid skirr of those heavy coils away from his chest. The angel ran a hand across his forehead, and was pleased to find no residue of ash—or attendant miracles—remaining. He politely kept his eyes shut for a few minutes more, to permit Crowley to resume his human form (and certainly _not_ to grant himself a moment to recover his own composure).

He sat up to see Crowley back on the other side of the room, curling his lips and clicking his (very human) tongue with the disgusted face a pet cat might make when one offers the Wrong Sort of Treat. “Angel, I have got to say that in over five thousand years, that is definitely the _weirdest_ favour I have ever done for you.” 

“Well, it was very …” Aziraphale stopped himself before he could say _kind of you_. “Very much appreciated, I should say. You took quite a risk for my sake. No ill effects, I do hope?”

“Eh. Don’t seem to be. ‘S’like … miracles, curses, all that got mixed up, all the symbol-stuff sort of cancelled each other out.” The demon smacked his lips again. “Nasty, though.” 

_Hrmph_. Aziraphale made a small displeased noise. He had found the whole experience to be far from _nasty_ , but it would obviously be quite churlish to say so. 

Some of his disgruntlement must have leaked through, however, since Crowley hurriedly went on to add “Not _you_ , that is. The ashes, and … stuff. You taste _fine_. Happy to, um, lick you anytime. Ngk. Well. I mean, not _any_ time, but … You’re not. Urk. Dust-ish. Dusty. _Ugh_.” The demon clamped his jaws shut. 

The angel, being an entity of infinite compassion and mercy, chose not respond to any of this garbled speech. Instead, he merely nodded. “I am very grateful, to be sure. I consider myself in your debt.”

Crowley hissed through his teeth. “Better not, angel.”

“Quite.” Aziraphale cast about for a change of topic. “Shall we sample one of those bottles, then?” He snapped a pair of drinking goblets into existence.

“Sounds about right.” The demon settled himself comfortably on the floor, leaning against the wall, long legs stretched out in the small room so that they almost (but not quite) nudged Aziraphale’s own feet, settled neatly side-by-side.

The angel contemplated Crowley’s shoes. Laced, buckled, square-toed, extravagantly heeled, delicate swanskin (or was it snakeskin?) leather dyed black as night. Ridiculous serpent, always at the forefront of fashion, no matter how impractical and uncomfortable. He thought of the feet within, narrow and long and ebon-clawed, like the demon’s hands now cradling his wine. 

_Mandatum novum do vobis: ut diligatis invicem, sicut delexi vos_.

Azariphale took a long swallow of his own drink, and cleared his throat. “I say, dear boy, how long do you expect to be in town?” 

“Eh, hard to say. Probably less than a month. The bishop wants us to move on to Lisbon before Easter, I think. Why?” Crowley rolled his head to look at Aziraphale, gifting him a lopsided grin.

“No reason. I wish it could be longer.” _Mandatum novum do vobis: ut diligatis invicem, sicut delexi vos_. “I’d like to … repay the favour, somehow.” He licked his lips. “If I could.”

“No worries, angel.” The demon’s tone was uncharacteristically gentle. “You will, someday. Or have already.” He rolled his head back, staring off into the middle distance. “S’not like I’m keeping score, or anything.”

“No.” Aziraphale smiled into his wine. “Good thing, really. I’d hate to know how far behind the count I must be by now.”

“Don’t be daft,” Crowley growled, but his voice was still soft. “Stupid cheating angel. Started out so far ahead, gotta keep going as fast as I can just to … try to catch up.”

“Is that so?” Aziraphale felt his face grow warm. He did not look over at the demon. 

“Yep.” 

“How clever of me.”

“’Twas.”

There was silence, but a comfortable one; the kind of silence that friends can share, because words aren’t needed any more. 

Then Crowley opened the second bottle, and they talked of other things until well into the night.

END

**Author's Note:**

> The title is from Psalm 51, which is part of the traditional Ash Wednesday liturgy.  
> The command to avoid a doleful appearance while fasting (paraphrased by Crowley) comes from Matthew 6:16-18, which ditto.  
> Crowley’s plot-convenient curse comes from Genesis 3:14, which isn't, but might could.  
> The Latin phrase Aziraphale repeats twice is usually sung on Maundy Thursday (the Thursday before Easter) during the ritual foot washing. It comes from John 13:34: _A new commandment I give unto you, That ye love one another, as I have loved you._
> 
> Historical note: Anyone looking for historical inspiration for their Great Big Fantasy Epic could do worse than read up on the calamitous tangle of political, military, economic, and religious intrigue in the Iberian Peninsula during the 16th-18th centuries. I only briefly alluded to a few events, but the whole period makes the Wars of the Roses look like a game of Candyland.
> 
> The Portuguese Inquisition was formally separate from the Spanish Inquisition, but wasn’t one bit less horrific. If you are morbidly curious, Crowley makes specific reference to this practice: https://www.sciencedirect.com/science/article/abs/pii/S0278416515000136
> 
> Yes, I did in fact write all these end notes *before* writing the actual story.  
> I am a huge nerd.


End file.
